Malarkey by Sheila Simonson Read Free Book Online Page A

the town near the
roundabout, so I accomplished my shopping in jig time. I even
bought a bottle of decent French wine for the Steins. The bank took a
bit longer. I drove to the cottage and, watched by the suspicious
constable, bestowed the groceries suitably. By three, I was free to
wander.
    I think I suffered a residual spasm of jet-lag. I got lost along
the seacoast. The road wound between stone walls with glimpses of
steep headlands and golden sand far below. Except for one cramped-
looking park, the beach was in private hands, a disappointment.
Ocean beaches in Washington State, where I live, have public access.
I wanted to run on the sand. I needed a good run.
    I gave up on that idea somewhere between Arklow and
Wicklow. It was time to go back to Mrs. O'Brien's for a shower and a
change of clothes. After half a dozen false starts, I pointed the Toyota
west and drove until I hit the N11 north of Suicide Lane. From there
it was plain sailing, but I was a little frazzled when I drew up at
Ballymann House. Which may explain why I forgot to call my
husband.
    Mrs. O'Brien had an instinct for succoring distressed
tourists. She greeted me at the door and asked if I fancied a pot of tea
in the lounge with my father. I could have kissed her feet.
    Dad and I drove back to Stanyon at half past six. Alex Stein
wanted to show us the house before dinner. Alex was a good-looking
man with dark hair and eyes and an endearing cowlick. He was
short, by Dailey standards, but half a head taller than Barbara, and,
like Barbara, he was intense. He so clearly idolized my father I was
inclined to like him.
    Alex took my bottle of wine, shook hands, and gave me a
brief smile. Then he turned to Dad. "This is a bad business,
George."
    "The dead man?" Dad shook hands, too. "If he was your
business manager, I imagine his death does leave you in fix."
    Alex led us into a foyer that was in the throes of restoration.
"I'm more concerned about the legal situation. The police are talking
as if Slade was killed by one of the kids who were role-playing in the
woods Monday."
    "An accident?"
    "Maybe."
    Or manslaughter. That was interesting, though not
surprising. I said, "How was he killed?"
    "The Garda inspector used a lot of technical jargon. What it
boils down to is that they think somebody used a choke-hold on
him."
    I blinked. "Do people use choke-holds in Ireland?"
    "Somebody did. Slade liked to think of himself as an expert
on the martial arts. He may have showed the kids how to use the
choke-hold to subdue an attacker."
    "Those are fast results for an autopsy," I observed.
    Dad stared at me as if he found my knowledge of autopsies
distasteful. Perhaps he did.
    Alex said, "They're not sure that's what happened.
Preliminary findings. They're going to hold a coroner's inquest."
    That was consistent with British law. American courts rarely
require an inquest. "And you're worried about liability?"
    He sighed. "The Irish are not as litigious as Americans in
these situations. I suppose I'm worried about moral liability."
    Dad nodded, approving.
    Alex went on, "I didn't like Slade's little games. They
smacked of hate groups and white supremacist militias. He swore his
had no political overtones, but everything has political overtones,
especially in Ireland."
    My father said gravely, "If there's anything I can do to help
you, Alex, don't hesitate to ask. I spoke with Chief Inspector Mahon
this morning."
    He gave Dad a dazzling smile. "Thanks, George. We need all
the support we can get. Do you want to see the house first or have a
drink?"
    "The house." Dad didn't hesitate.
    I was less enthusiastic, but I tagged along.
    The interior of Stanyon Hall in its heyday must have caused
a sensation among the landed gentry. Most Irish manor houses were
reputedly Georgian. Stanyon looked as if it had been generated by a
cabal of Black Forest gnomes.
    When I was an undergraduate I went on a six-week
European tour between basketball clinics. Among the chateaux and
galleries